Banana Boxes
by CountingCrow16
Summary: As Kurt prepares to leave for college, he has to say goodbye to a very important part of his life.


**Just a little one-shot I wrote to help me muck through some stuff. Let me know what you think,**

**I don't own Glee.**

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Kurt traced his hand lightly over the bright blue and yellow lettering on the box in front of him.

"Elizabeth's Figurines," the box was labeled, done in Burt Hummel's stunted, grieving handwriting all those years ago. Kurt lifted the lid off, although it wasn't really necessary to do so. The banana boxes had openings in the lid and in the bottom for gentler transport. Nonetheless, he pulled up the lid and set it gently to the side. Choosing a newspaper-wrapped item from the top, he picked it up and slowly removed the paper shell.

He already knew what was in there. He'd long ago memorized each item in each box and could identify any of them by the weight or shape of them alone, but he still wanted to see it.

The paper fluttered to the floor as Kurt brought the ceramic bunny close to his face. He contemplated the delicate features, the tiny brush strokes, hand painted by some faceless memory from long ago. She'd gotten this one at a craft fair, before Kurt was even born. She loved bunnies and rabbits and collected them. She had them in every size and material, some were cheap and purely meant as decoration for unused rooms. Some were priceless.

Well, to Kurt they were all priceless. Even the wicker one that was missing an ear and had a hole in its side from some mishap, which apparently involved himself as a young child, but of which he had no recollection. It didn't matter that because of this, it no longer resembled a rabbit. Elizabeth kept it still, sitting on the upright piano in the living room on prominent display. As Kurt grew a little older, a little more curious, he would often ask his mother why, with wrinkled nose, why would you keep this?

"Because it holds a special memory for mommy," she would always answer. "And no matter how many ears it loses or how much abuse it takes, it still keeps that memory and when mommy sees it, it makes her smile."

That was enough for Kurt then, as a child, and now it was even more than that, because whatever memory his mom was storing in that stupid wicker rabbit, it had to make room for Kurt's own memory.

All of them would. They all had their own memories, their own stories, some of which Kurt knew, and some that were complete mysteries to him. He didn't consider himself someone who held onto material things. It was never a struggle to donate last year's wardrobe to the homeless shelter, nor did he have any qualms about ditching half of his mementos after high school. But the banana boxes were different.

In some ways, he hated those boxes. He couldn't go into the attic without seeing them, with their cheerful colors and slogans, and every time he did, the pain hit him hard in the stomach. Memories would flood in and it was never the good ones. The good memories were reserved for birthdays, holidays and other times of reminiscing with family. But the banana boxes only ever reminded Kurt of the pain of watching his father and uncles boxing everything up. He remembered the sad smiles his Uncle's Jon and Logan gave him as they passed him sitting at the foot of the stairs, boxes in hand. He remembered the way his father led him outside, distracted him with some stupid story as his uncles removed the bedding from his parent's room and carried it in garbage bags to the curb because his father simply couldn't.

The boxes were stowed away in the attic of their old house and for several years, Kurt didn't go looking for them. He never forgot their existence, but he was afraid of what he might find if he started digging through everything. Then one day, in middle school, after a particularly rough day going up against stupid Noah Puckerman and his friends, Kurt had an undeniable urge to go through the boxes. So on shaky legs, he climbed the pull-down attic stairs and pulled the cord to turn on the light. There they were, bright and cheerful as ever, despite what they represented to him.

For hours he went through each box, carefully laying everything out on the plywood floor. When he heard his father calling him for dinner, he packed everything back up, same as it was before and headed down without looking back. Over the years he'd go to the boxes when he needed comfort, despite the pain it brought him. No matter how sad he was, or how bad his day had gone, he'd always find one figurine that seemed to give him whatever he needed that day. Well, it wasn't really the rabbit, but the memory of Elizabeth, the story she'd told about it, that comforted him.

"Kurt! Come on, son, we have to hit the road!"

Kurt was yanked out of his reverie by the sound of his father's voice at the bottom of the attic stairs. Wiping his wet eyes with the back of his sleeve, he carefully wrapped the ceramic bunny back up in the newspaper before placing it carefully in the box. Grabbing the lid, he froze for a moment before sliding it back into place. He was about to head off to college, off to Boston all on his own. Finn had already left for Fort Benning in Georgia and Rachel had gone to New York weeks ago. Blaine was still at home, but now it was time for Kurt to go.

He never intended to take the boxes with him. He was positive that strong enough now, a grown up, and he could find other ways to deal with the shit life slung at him. But now, sitting in that stuffy, cramped attic amid the half a dozen banana boxes, he felt a panic rising within him at the prospect of leaving them behind.

Was there room in his tiny dormitory? Would his roommate think he was weird? Was there even room in the car? The logical solution would be to leave the boxes where they were. Visit them on holidays, so to speak, but that wasn't enough.

"Kurt! We have to go now, you're going to be late for orientation as it is!"

With a deep breath, Kurt began digging through the open box in front of him before his hand landed on what he was looking for. He didn't need to unwrap it to know he'd grabbed the right one, but he did anyway, just so he could see it. As the paper came off, the first thing he noticed was the missing ear. He pushed his thumb through the hole in its side and smiled to himself before wrapping it up again. He placed the lid back on the box and tucked the rabbit carefully under his arm before descending the attic stairs and folding them back to the ceiling.


End file.
